


Risking the Devils to Find Your Saint

by forkflinger



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Exceptional Story Spoilers, For All the Saints Who From Their Labours Rest, Other, POV Second Person, Pining, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 18:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18057611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forkflinger/pseuds/forkflinger
Summary: You know the ways of the Neath well enough. Romances are fleeting, and you don't bother with dwelling too much on them when they've passed. But despite your best efforts, he never quite left your mind.You had to look for him. There simply wasn't another choice.





	Risking the Devils to Find Your Saint

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the Exceptional Story for September 2018, For All the Saints who From Their Labours Rest. Because it made me sad.

The last time you saw the Intrepid Deacon had been late on a cool autumn afternoon. You and he, at the behest of the Church, had investigated claims of a new saint. You grew close as you searched dusty texts, explored forgotten basements, and traveled to the gates of Hell itself. And on that long train ride, you made clear your fondness for him - and he accepted. 

But then, the saint proved to be a fraud. You returned to London, reported your findings to the Bishop, received your promised rewards. And the Intrepid Deacon packed his things and left to work intelligence for the Brass Embassy.

Life was full of these little flings, brief romantic brushes that weren’t meant to last. Since your arrival in the Neath you’d spent many nights with a little too much wine and a pretty stranger. The Intrepid Deacon would just be another old flame to add to the list, a brief and pleasant memory, and you returned to your routine of days at the court and nights in the Flit.

And yet, somehow, something lingered in the back of your mind. Some mornings you woke alone and reached out for someone who was not in your bed. A quiet cup of tea in your library felt lonely instead of peaceful. More than one romantic encounter ended unsatisfactorily when you looked your companion in the eye and saw the wrong person. It takes an embarrassingly long time to admit to yourself that you miss him.

Your affiliations with the legions of Hell were cursory and polite at best. Devils may have been common on the streets of London but aside from one or two friendly types trying to seduce away your soul, your paths rarely crossed. Calling at the Embassy directly did no good. Denials of knowledge could have been genuine, or Hell protecting its interests and agents. It seemed he had dropped the appellation of Intrepid Deacon, as well; no rumors or whispers you could find mentioned such a man. He had disappeared.

So you started looking.

Working your way into the Embassy took time, of course, but you had patience. A few well placed words to the Affectionate Devil earned you an invite to a party, held in the Embassy’s ballroom. You were charming, you were witty, you were sympathetic to infernal concerns. And you were invited to another little get-together. You were taken out to lunch. You were confided in, and trusted with little errands here and there. Careful, gradual steps into the confidence of devils. You lived on a tightrope, a flirt trying to earn a favor without giving a kiss. To balk at a shady task or not laugh at a cruel joke was to raise suspicion and lose ground. But too loose, too careless, and you could find yourself waking up without a soul - or burdened by guilt that would make you wish you had.

Time passed. Seasons changed, such as they did in the Neath. You wormed your way into the company of devils until you were a familiar face in the halls of the Embassy. Certain friends expressed concern about your morals; others admired this bold new direction. They could speculate as much as they wanted, and it made no difference to you. You had a goal, and your heart would not let you rest until you achieved it.

 

It is autumn again. You have been called to the Embassy by one of your devil friends; he has a task he would like your assistance with, and wants to give you details in person. You suspect he has other intentions in mind, but most devils usually do.

Wandering the Embassy, you find yourself with the opportunity to make a wrong turn down a back hallway you’ve never passed through before. It’s poorly lit, dusty, not as polished as the more public areas of the Embassy. A man approaches and you stiffen, expecting a polite but firm hand guiding you out of this area. The man walks past you without looking up from the papers in his hand. His clothes are of fine make and modern fashion, but his face looks thin. A heartbeat passes before you recognize him. You call out before you can hesitate.

He turns, barely lifting his eyes. As his eyes focus on you, a smile lifts the corners of his tired mouth. The man you once knew as the Intrepid Deacon stands before you. "Well, hello." 

The two of you stand there, facing each other for the first time since that cold afternoon. You hold back a torrent of questions and manage a polite greeting. This dingy back hallway of the Brass Embassy is no place for this reunion, and you both have other business that brought you here, so you make plans to meet at a cafe. Not Dante's Grill, but someplace a little quieter and less infernal.

You arrive before him and have a seat at an iron table on the patio. Of course you're not concerned that he might not show, and of course there's no sinking feeling in your chest as the clock hands tick toward, then past the appointed time. You sit, and you sip your tea, and your heart doesn't leap into your throat when you spot him down the road. 

He waves and smiles and seats himself across from you at the table. You get a closer look at his features while he orders. He _does_ look thin, after all. Not worryingly so, not gaunt or feeble, but a little sharper around the edges. Pale, but who isn't? His eyes don’t have that dullness found in the soulless, but they droop.

"It's good to see you." A knot somewhere in your chest releases. He sips his tea and smiles at you, and a little bit of the warmth you remember returns to his face. "How've you been?" 

Damn. You meant to ask first; you don't care about how _you've_ been. You provide a brief, heavily edited account of your activities since you last saw him. You leave out, for example, the months you spent trying not to think about him and fighting the urge to seek him out. You don't mention the ache that wouldn't quite fade that eventually drew you into the company of devils. You don't tell him about the razor edge dance of getting in their good graces without staining your soul, the constant polite demands for it, and the nights when you nearly gave in. 

He listens politely to your carefully rehearsed explanation of how you just happened to be in the area. He smiles and nods and doesn't believe a word. 

When your turn to question comes, you hold back on all the desperate wonderings of empty nights and simply inquire after his health. He, in turn, provides a bland and cursory summary of his work with the Embassy. 

"It's not all that different from the clergy, really." He stirs his tea and watches the swirls in his cup. "Mostly politics, interesting only to those in the middle of it. They value many of the same things. Control, independence, recognition." He looks away. "Loyalty." 

Was that a hint of apology? Or are you hearing what you wished to hear for so long? You've been patient, and you can wait a little longer. 

You chat idly, the common pleasantries of two people dancing around a subject. The weather (dreary, as usual), the news (mostly bad, as usual), the service at this cafe (acceptable, could be better, but the location is convenient and calm). At first you weigh each word carefully, searching for meaning in his, trying not to reveal anything in yours, as if one wrong word could send him back into hiding like a startled deer. But you find yourself beginning to enjoy the conversation, lowering your guard. He also visibly relaxes; he smiles more easily, even laughs from time to time. His eyes show some of that light they held when you first met him, and he looks upon you softly. It occurs to you that you never had a moment like this with him before. All your time was spent in research or investigating or other vigorous pursuits. Never a quiet cup of tea at a cafe, or dinner out at a charming bistro, or a sleepy morning wrapped in cozy bedding. And you realize that more than answers or apologies, you want those moments. You want him. 

A lull in the conversation. He takes a breath and sets down his teacup. 

"I'm sorry." He leans his head back, gazing up at the false stars overhead. "What I saw, what I heard, there at the gates of Hell..." He looks back at you, his eyes dark. "I lost something. It wasn't mine to lose. But it was taken, and I was left bereft. And then there was you." He smiles sadly. "There was too much love, and it wasn't enough. There was a burning I couldn't feel. There was..." He pauses. "I've spent a great deal of time trying to find the words. I never quite succeeded. I’m afraid I can’t explain myself." 

You find yourself in a similar situation. You had so many carefully rehearsed questions and admonishments, but they've all left your mind. 

The Intrepid Deacon took your heart, was changed by Hell, and left you. The Infernal Deacon sits in front of you, asking forgiveness. 

How you could deny it? The evening beckons, and responsibilities distract. He gives you his contact information at the Brass Embassy. You give him yours, at your lovely townhouse. He promised to call upon you in a few day's time; there is much more you have to say to each other now. But for now, a gentle touch on the hand and a promise of tomorrow is enough. 

 

A twist in your tale! You are now **Reunited with the Infernal Deacon**!

**Melancholy** is dropping...


End file.
